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I made a mental note to call Rosie for the hundredth time in order to plan some sort of hit on Killian’s mother.
Maybe planning a murder might get my friend to talk to me for the first time since she disappeared five months ago, right after Skid was murdered, Lucky was shot and Bex was almost killed by the psychopath responsible for almost blowing me up, breaking my arm and setting in motion the events that broke my heart.
The man actually responsible for that particular break, the one that didn’t heal like a bone did, was eyeing me with solid brown eyes and a stiff jaw.
He folded his arms, his eyes going guarded. “Not my job to ask questions.” He paused. “Though it is yours.” Accusation dripped from his tone, and I cursed the fact that he managed to somehow see straight through me, in all ways.
I jutted my chin up. “No, it’s my job to interview designers, talk about the latest bag that costs more than a reasonably priced used car and decide whether neutrals are in for fall.” I paused. “They are. So, go stock up on beige if you want to be ahead of the curve.” I gave him a long icy glare, which he didn’t flinch from, nor break. “Now, you didn’t answer my question. Not to satisfaction. If A, she fired you, why was tall, dark and grunty at the scene of the murder? And B, why did you come all the way down here when you have rock stars to protect and a reputation as a badass to uphold?”
Keltan’s eyes analyzed me in a way I did not like. In a way that I’d forgotten they did. Like they recognized the illusion of the stillness of my decorum and swam deeper to inspect the chaos.
“Heath was there because our security systems were still alerted to a breach in the property. We didn’t disable them considering Lucinda’s personality. She tended to be… rash, to say the least. Plus, she’d already paid and needed them.” He stepped forward. “And I came because the second I heard your name and “murder scene” in the same sentence, my fuckin’ heart stopped beatin’. The only thing that kept me sane was that echo of your voice on the other end of the phone.” He stepped closer, his hand going to my jaw. “I came because I had no other fuckin’ choice except insanity if I didn’t see you, touch you, have every one of my senses ensure me you were safe and in one piece.”
His breath was hot on my face at that point, his body pressing into mine once again. Too many times in such a short period. The vulnerable, exposed parts of me wanted to lean into that. What he offered. Especially the unwavering safe haven.
The still. The real still, not whatever illusion flickered on the surface that fooled most people except the man in front of me.
But then I was still in control. Me, Lucy. Not the Lucy who listened to eight-year-old voices or who let the man in front of me beyond the stillness. This was the Lucy who managed to survive the loss of this. Who managed to do it without her best friend. Who managed to wrench herself away from her home and move to a city that housed the man who broke her heart in order to give herself the life she’d dreamed of.
The Lucy who excelled at keeping rattling boxes shut.
So I put my hand on his chest, relishing the feel of it for one split second before exerting enough pressure to communicate my need.
For him to stop touching me.
He was strong enough to ignore the gesture, but he still complied, despite looking more than a little unhappy about it.
“You came, you saw, but you didn’t conquer,” I informed him. “I’m not dead. You can now go about your day and I’ll go about my life.”
I went in the direction of the last flight of stairs, but his voice stopped me.
“You think I’m gonna let you walk away, Snow?” he asked roughly. “That I haven’t been thinkin’ of you for six fuckin’ months and twelve days? You think we’re done?”
I twirled, but not before I disguised every emotion on my face. “Yes, Keltan. I think we’re done,” I lied, my voice flat and final and empty. On the surface, at least.
Then without waiting for a thing, I turned on my heel and left.
“You know we’re not.” The words floated after me like a harbinger of trouble.
Of doom.
“You done?” a voice growled from behind me, so close the smell of mint lozenges imprinted itself in my hair that I’d secured atop my head with a discarded and unused pen. Pens were going the way of the newspaper in this digital world. Rather sad. Hence me giving the forgotten artifact another use.
